


Jason was here

by Super_Scene_It



Category: DCU (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Super_Scene_It/pseuds/Super_Scene_It
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers ache as they unwind and metal hits the ground. The bloodied crow bar lands by his feet, the curl of the end peering back up at him with this sad, sorry, pathetic frown.<br/>He kicks it to the side and laughs to himself. There's a joke here somewhere. Give him some time, he's sure he'll find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jason was here

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing jason todd  
> so it's probably stupid  
> but whatever

 

☻☻☻

 

 

There's blood on his hands, on his boots, on his face. There's blood splattered in his eye, trickling down to his mouth from behind the mask. And blood never tasted so good. So sweet and delicious.

 

His fingers ache as they unwind and metal hits the ground. The bloodied crow bar lands by his feet, the curl of the end peering back up at him with this sad, sorry, pathetic frown. 

 

He kicks it to the side and laughs to himself. There's a joke here somewhere. Give him some time, he's sure he'll find it.

 

A minute hasn't even passed and all ready he smells the bodies' odor of decay. Or maybe that's just the usual stink of Gotham City. The reek of rot's a common scent by now and taking a deep breath of this stench alone will surely kill anyone who doesn't belong in this neighborhood-- that is if he doesn't get to them first. But he's been smelling this nasty shit for years. Never bothered him much. Especially not on a night like this.

 

The rain pours red. Heavy and hard. Every drop from the sky is like a bullet to the head. It hits his mask with loud clanks, needles thick and sharp enough to chip the paint.

 

There's a body not too far away emitting a grunt and a growl not low enough to not be heard even through a rainstorm shitting down cats and dogs. A few meters walk and a single round spent wasn't much effort at all. Then there was silence, all but for the rain and the fainting echo of a steaming gun. 

A lifeless arm rests where it should and the sudden ache of his jaw and possible budding bruise had Jason remembering that the guy could swing a strong punch. The fat fuck.

 

He bashed the bastard's head in with the heel of his foot, slamming it down until blood and brains were painting abstract art along the empty streets. A single boot print added his own personal touch and when he stepped back to admire his work it was a true master piece. Somehow the picture healed his wounds.

 

He traces his steps and looks out into the city. It's a dark night. Black and cold. Someone once told him that a night like this always showed its true colors. Ugly colors. Thick and red. Messy. Much like the gunk beneath his boots and the roadkill decorating the streets.

 

But he was right. Bruce. Bruce was always right. Even when he's wrong.

 

And he's there. Jason can feel him. He's watching. Even though you can't see him. But that's because he's hiding. And, oh, they're always hiding aren't they? Jason's hiding too. One mask beneath another. But come a little closer and he'll show you his colors. That and a whole lot more.

 

If you listen closely you can hear the screams. If you close your eyes you can see the blood. If you take a deep breath you can smell the death.

Oh yes. Gotham was beautiful. A beautiful whore you couldn't take home. Still, you'd fuck her every night in the back seat of your car. Because that's the way you get to know a lady.

 

And if you do it often enough, she'll tell you her dirty little secrets.

 

☻☻☻

 

 

He looks down over the railing of a beatdown warehouse and spots the head scumbag of the bunch sporting a fucked up right eye and a good left hook. Word on the street says he's a piece of shit and Jason's just here to deliver what he's had coming. 

 

Crates and crates of drugs in all its varying shades of filth cover every square inch of the place. New shipments are scheduled for arrival by tomorrow morning. Too bad no one will be alive by then.

 

He jumps right in, not bothering to give a courteous heads up. Getting straight to it he delivers a bullet to one head, a knife to the throat of another, and a face full of foot to a third. Bones crack, crunch and crush at the beckon of his fists. The impact tingling his knuckles feels so good. Feels like old times.

And suddenly he's a little boy again and it's the rush he'd get right before they'd run out for a mission. Suited up, running towards the Batmobile with his cape flowing gently behind him and Alfred's worried voice echoing in the Batcave telling them to be careful as they took off. It's a thrill. But it's bittersweet. A cold comfort. A mean reminder.

Sometimes he gets lost in the excitement of it all. Until his chin points over his shoulder. And he's not there. In retrospective, he never really was.

No. It's a lonely world. Right now it's just him and these six thugs scrambling for the exit and there is no Batman here to save them tonight.

 

There's no mercy either.

 

Teeth spew to the floor as jaws twist on their hinges. Guts spill when his hand jerks back, the tip of the jagged knife all ready making aim towards its next victim. Missed shots turn to friendly fire, dealing his punishments without even moving a muscle.

 

Motions that are now flawless, fluid and perfected were not always. No. They were never good enough.

Not for _him_.

Always second best. Always. Haunted by the shadow he'd forever live beneath, that costume and codename that didn't belong to him. Him-- the replacement. The failure. The dead Robin. 

He grits his teeth and his blows are just that much more damaging, cruel, and brutal. Fatal.

 

The deaths are quick, though not without pain, and there's only one left but his night is just beginning.

 

 

☻☻☻

 

Nightwing. 

The original boy wonder. 

Bruce's favorite little birdie's all grown up and flew the coop. It's the worst kind of loss and Bruce has never really gotten over it. No. Not really. 

With his grace and his flips and that stupid fucking smile, the handle of the blade twisted in Jason's grip. He could tear it right off his precious little face with a single carefully placed swing and cut him a new one. 

 

There he goes. Dropping them one by one. Without the final killing blow of course. Just like he was taught. Like they all were.

 

Every punch, kick, jump, and counter is not without precision. The firmness is familiar yet there's a certain sway to it that is all his own. Something extra that cannot be easily mimicked. He's good, he'll give him that. After all, he's learned from the best.

Look at him. He thinks he's better than everyone because he has _daddy's_ love. His respect. His attention. 

There was a time when Jason wanted those things, too. A time when he'd do anything to earn that approving nod, see that glint of pride in his eye, feel that pat on his back that'd signify more than he'd ever say-- praise that was so very scarce despite all his giving efforts. Yes, there was a time. A time so very long ago.

So... fuck _that_.

 

Still, there's a pang in his chest and when he feels it his lips curl in disgust. Dickie's done his good deed and is making off into the shadows and Jason'd spit in his pretty face if he were close enough.

 

If the distance between them weren't so great, he could easily gouge his eyes out with the tips of his fingers. Bash his head in with a rusted pipe. Pull his teeth out one by one. Rip his angel wings clean off.

 

He holds his breath. Counts to ten. It's hard to watch him go. To let him get away without dealing him his long overdue punishment.

 

Patience. He'll get what he has coming to him.

They all will. 

 

 

☻☻☻

 

 

There's no such thing as nightmares. Not when there's reality.

Waking up in your own coffin, buried six feet deep where no one can hear your screams-- now it just doesn't get any better than that.

 

It's funny when you think about it. The begs and the cries, the empty promises they offer-- why do so many people choose to waste their last breaths on such pettiness?

The man's on his knees offering money when he feels the gun pressing hot up against the back of his cranium. Pleads for his life like he's got something to live for, trying to convince him that he doesn't deserve a bullet in his head. Says he's got a family. 

There's no such thing as family.

Says he's got a wife and a kid on the way. A baby boy.

Well, he should've thought about that before he raped that little girl in the back alley. The sick fuck.

A swift kick to the head splits the blotchy skin on his forehead wide open, oozing out the sweet sticky redness. Such a pretty color.

He whimpers like the dog that he is and when he peers up at him with that ugly mug of his, Jason sees his mother's face in his dark eyes and he doesn't know how she could have the nerve to show herself on a night like this.

 

Suddenly he feels the wetness on his own face. It must be raining again. 

Looking up, he finds that the skies are clear.

 

For once he can't bring himself to smile a chilling grin when he pulls the trigger. Yet, there's a pleasant, satisfying pop that rings and lingers in the air.

 

 

 ☻☻☻

 

 

She has a nice smile. Gotham. Sure, her teeth are crooked, bloodied and she might be missing a few. She's a feisty bitch but it's beauty in its rarest form. He'd walk her streets and she'd hold his hand and take him through time. Not much has changed. Maybe a few buildings, a tree here or there, but not the people. Not the people who abuse her. And most certainly not the people who think they own her. Not Batman.

_Never Batman._

 

 

Watching from a decent distance, Jason eyes him through the magnified glass of a sniper rifle from the rooftop of an adjacent building. The Batmobile's parked not too far off from a rat infested alley where he's dealt death to far too many rapists to keep count anymore.

He sees the Batmobile and it's where it all began--maybe he'll shoot a hole in the tire for old times' sake.

And there's a warehouse.

Where it all ended.

 

He chokes on a laugh. Again, there's a joke here somewhere. He's looking right at it.

 

Grim and stiff, the red dot on the back of Batman's cowl follows him into the vacant warehouse. Jason smiles. He'll find nothing but dead bodies and empty crates. Perhaps even a stink he won't forget. 

 

The place is rigged to blow and he probably all ready knows this and will be out five seconds right before it does. Though not before he'll see the note he left him on the wall. 

_Jason was here._

Written in Gotham's favorite color. Blood red.

 

 

Maybe his finger itches and if he stares at him for too long his eyes may sting a little.

 

But that look on Batman's face alone was worth dying and coming back for.

 

☺


End file.
